


upon my liar's chair

by Roehrborn



Series: Canon Compliant Nygmobblepot [6]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: 4x01, Canon Compliant, Heartbreak, Love, M/M, Oswald writes his own fanfiction as per canon, Sorrow, a weird mix of sorrow and humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-04 00:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158298
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roehrborn/pseuds/Roehrborn
Summary: “He begged me…”Briefly, Oswald imagines it.  “Oswald,” Ed would say, “I - I know this is a lot to ask.  But please, do this one thing for me.”“Anything,” Oswald would say; ofcoursehe would give anything for his best friend, for theonelove of his life…~Oswald practices his speech for the reporters.  It’s difficult to keep his mind from wandering.





	upon my liar's chair

**Author's Note:**

> I’M BACK ON MY SHIT.
> 
> Much thanks to my dear friend Flux for encouraging me to write this. <3
> 
> Please enjoy!  
> ~R

“His last words were…”

Oswald halts, clenching his cane in his hand. No, no, not right. Too final. Too certain. There has to be some _doubt_. Some anticipation that maybe, just maybe, _Edward Nygma_ could be saved. Otherwise, he’s just a corpse on display, and _that’s_ in poor taste.

No, he’s -- he’s -- _Sleeping Beauty_ , is what he is -- or Snow White, perhaps. Frozen in time, waiting wistfully, if he’s able to think at all. Waiting for someone to come along and wake him from his slumber, to--

 _No, no, absolutely not_. Oswald taps his cane against the floor, determinedly, and begins to pace before the ice sculpture once again.

“Turns out Ed had a very rare brain disease. There was only one option: to freeze him and wait for the cure. In his final… _lucid_ moments,” Oswald continues triumphantly, “he said to me -- no.”

Oswald halts once again, turning on his heel to face the ice figure. “He said to me…”

Edward's mouth, open as if in preparation for speech, hand outstretched in a desperate attempt to forestall fate…

“He _begged_ me…” With tears in his eyes, perhaps; it's not difficult to imagine - Ed would be _horrified_ to lose his mind, wouldn't he? The thing that separated him from the ordinary citizens of Gotham, the reason he'd made it as far as he had. Of course, there are limits to everyone's potential, even someone such as Ed. And that limit had been _Oswald_.

“He begged me…” Briefly, Oswald imagines it. Imagines Ed taking a step forward, placing his hands on Oswald's shoulders. “Oswald,” he'd say, “I - I know this is a lot to ask. But please, do one thing for me.”

“Anything,” Oswald would say; of _course_ he would give anything for his best friend, for the _one_ love of his life…

“I know that I have no right,” Ed would say. “I know that I can't ask you to put your entire life on hold while I wait for a cure. But please, Oswald, just once before, would you…” and his eyes would drift down to Oswald’s lip, uncertain, “would you kiss me?”

And Oswald’s breath would be caught in his lungs, desire and shock alike, but before Edward’s expression could fall, he would take one desperate step forward and seize Edward’s face between his two palms--

His cane skids on the floor and he drops it with a clatter, righting himself on his two unsteady feet, blinking rapidly to dispel the parade of images before his eyes. What? _What_? Oswald clenches his hands into fists, turning abruptly to stare up at the statue; but it’s still frozen, and the fact that his heart is racing in his chest means nothing.

Oswald swallows harshly and grits his teeth. “ _He begged me… ‘Oswald’_ ,” he says, stalking toward the ice, footfalls loud and strident, “ _‘do not hide me away’_ ,” Oswald continues, in a mocking parody of Edward’s voice. “ _‘Put me out with the people.’_ ” It’s _absurd_ ; anyone who knew Ed would know that it’s a lie. The _last_ thing Edward Nygma would want would be to be _paraded_ in front of Oswald’s giggling club guests, as if he’s nothing more than a trophy…

But who’s left? Who is even _left_ to know what he would have or wouldn’t have wanted? The city has all but forgotten his stint as “The Riddler”; in _fact_ , having Oswald introduce him like this, they’ll be more likely to remember him as the _chief of staff_ than anything else.

Oswald’s lips curve into a smile at the thought. That even after all he’d done to extricate himself from Oswald, in his suspended animation he would still be remembered as Oswald’s _good friend_.

“Oh, Ed,” Oswald says softy. “It was the _least_ I could do.”

He doesn’t know when he got this close to the statue; he’s standing right at the edge of the cushions surrounding it. If he climbed on the cushions and reached out, his hand would still be several feet away from the ice; he’d designed it that way _purposefully_. Didn’t want any grubby hands _smudging_ it.

Because Ed is _beautiful_. Perhaps more like this than in any other way. Well, no; he’d been at his _most_ beautiful by Oswald’s side. But this makes for a close second.

“Turns out,” Oswald says, voice husky, “Ed had a very rare brain disease. There was only one option: to freeze him and wait for the cure. In his final lucid moments, he begged me: ‘Oswald, do not hide me away. Put me out with the people.’” It feels incomplete. He darts his tongue out to lick his lower lip. “It was the _least_ I could do.”

His heart is beating heavy in his chest. It only seems to do that when he’s looking at Edward, anymore. Oh, he still feels the familiar rush of rage, of irritation, of smug pleasure. But he doesn’t feel his heart in his chest; his ribcage feels hollow.

And brittle.

He loves his new position as the king of crime in Gotham; no other criminal before him has managed the like, and there will be none after him. But despite the resentful joy he feels, he knows there’s something missing. Something he once had. And he worries sometimes, quietly, that the right hit from the right direction could render him shattered, as if _he’s_ the one who’s been turned to ice.

And worse - he doesn’t know what that attack would _be_. He only knows the disquiet.

It’s not like Edward will _awaken_ any time soon. Not as if his “cure” will be found. Whatever infected Ed - the bitter seed of revenge, the compulsive need to finish what he’s started - it’s not curable by ordinary standards.

But if it _was_... 

Oswald inhales, sharply.

If he’d had the assurance that Edward would not harm him, he’d release him in a heartbeat. The slow thaw would be torturous, as he’d stand waiting until Ed regained consciousness. But when Ed began to fall, muscles numb and brain sluggish, Oswald would catch him, lowering him to the floor and perhaps wrapping his arms around the taller man to warm him faster…

And Edward would lean his head against Oswald’s shoulder, perhaps not really aware of who he was, and his eyes would shut, teeth chattering as his body struggled to generate heat.

With a smile that the other wouldn’t see, Oswald would sweep Edward’s hair out of his eyes, and Edward would finally look up at him. Oswald’s heart would be in his throat as he waited, but then Edward would reach out to cup Oswald’s cheek in his and rise up and…

...and _kiss_ him, cold and wanting, and Oswald would pull Edward even further into his embrace, locking his arms around him, _tasting_ the desperation and-and _devotion_ on Edward’s lips--

“Penguin, are you ready?”

Oswald straightens so quickly he nearly unbalances himself and falls. He has to grip one of the cushions to catch himself, and as he stares down at the nearly-reflective surface he has to urge himself not to scream.

“Ivy,” he says, with forced calm. “ _What_.”

“Um, you dropped your cane,” she says, a little flatly.

“I _know_ ,” Oswald says icily.

“ _Okay_ ,” Ivy says. “I just thought you might _want_ it.”

Her voice is getting on Oswald’s nerves; he bristles and whirls around to face her. “Ivy, _what_?”

“Oh,” she says. “You ready? The reporters are here.”

Oswald sucks in a deep breath. Unclenches his fists. Takes another deep breath. Ivy’s holding his cane nonchalantly, expression quite abrasive. “You can put that away,” Oswald says decisively. “I won’t use it.”

“Um, where?” she asks him, but he’s already sweeping past her toward the entrance, gait uneven but steps strong. No point looking back at Ed and dwelling on the past. He only has eyes for the _future_ , now.

He grits his teeth as he walks. He can’t help but feel like he’s _forgetting_ something, like he’s overlooking something obvious. As if in agreement with that notion, he feels a chill crawl up his back.

But he has nothing to be worried about. It’s _anticipation_ , of course.

Not fear.


End file.
